#it's just impossible to get rid of the fucking pixels

[fayevalcntine]

An Extended Look at Season 2

[youvereachedthebadend]

I'm just saying it might not go as smoothly as it did with Chase. Sleepless was a rather apathetic one, pretty much in a defeatist mindset. And you had the advantage of him being held outside the Place. You don't have that type of upper hand for the others.

Although, if that's any reassurance, Voices is already 100% not going along the glitch, Cat doesn't seems to be the fighting type, and Doc is already questioning a lot of stuff.

... but then there's still Error. -:)

'No, I know it won't go smoothly. I know that we'll need to get them away from him to even try to uncorrupt them. I know that there was a lot of luck involved in freeing Chase and that we're not going to have that with the rest! I fucking know that!'

White static begins to flicker along Jack's arms and legs. 'I know Anti's going to do everything to stop us! I know that none of them probably trust us! I know Error's going to fight against it! I know Jackie might be gone completely and impossible to get back! I know that even if we do manage to free them they'll still be suffering from what he did! You're not here when Chase is sleeping, you can't hear him crying in his sleep! But I can't do anything about it until he is gone because Chase can't go up to the surface without risking his new freedom! And even if we get rid of Anti there's probably no fixing my whole situation here! My friends are probably going to have to pretend I died or something because you can't just explain to people that someone's soul has detached from their body and they're a fucking coma ghost! I'll just have to watch them all from the distance because I can't do shit to help them with anything! I fucking k̛n̡͝o̴w!́'

Two nearby street lights flare bright, then shatter, spilling broken glass on the pavement below. Jack's form is flickering, pixelating into glitches and static. His left eye glows faintly green. Even though he doesn't need to breath, his chest is rising and falling heavily, and he presses a hand to where his heartbeat would be. For a moment, he just stands there. Then the glitching fades, as does the green light in his eyes. 'I'm...sorry,' he says quietly. 'I didn't mean to yell at you. It's not your fault. A-and you're right, some of the others...they'll probably go along with it when we get to them. It's just...a lot of things. A lot of things are going on. Have been. For a while. It's...a lot.'

[discreetcompanion]

I promise I'm not dead. I'm still here. I've been traveling a bit but really dealing with so much - family stuff. Health wise, I'm doing so much better but there was a bit of yo-yoing there for a bit. Feeling great then feeling like shit, feeling great then feeling like shit but I'm in a good place. It's been quite the journey but it could be worse right?

Omg can we talk for a minute? You know what I can't stand for the life of me? Men that are all talk no action. Estelle, I really like you, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, I want to spend my life with you, I want us to (fill in the blank) and then when it comes time to take action it's nothing but excuses. Do you know what's that's like, it's like sex that feels really good without an orgasm or chai tea without sugar. It's like... it's like... bologna. Can't remember the last time I had that but yeah that's what it's like LOL. The bottom line is men like this make my vagina drier than the sahara desert. Please don't be that guy. If you're going to contact me OR just happen to run into me and want to take me out on a date (most likely impossible these days), bring the energy. Its crazy to me how people have gotten so used to doing the absolute bare minimum. When I like a guy, I fuck his brains out, i dote on him, i text him alll the time, i'm all over him, i'm' giving him all this sexy chocolate goddess energy. If he doesn't match my energy, i pull back and move on to someone else. Guys, learn to bring it. It's sexy.

You know what i'm so over the Travis/Taylor thing. I'm so sick of hearing about those two. It's like you can't even escape them. Last year i decided to get rid of my iphone because i wanted to stop drinking the apple koolaid... big mistake. big. My google phone is worse than any social media app out there right now. I'm constantly being bombarded with notification of news i don't give a damn about and i'm like wait... there's gotta be a way to turn this off... nope. I haven't figured it out. If you know how to turn off the site notifications on the google pixel fold, please let me know lol. But yeah like I don't find Travis Kelce attractive at all and i'm sorry but Taylor swift is the most basic looking white girl ever. Blake lively? I'd fuck her with your dick. She's HOT as hell. Hearing about Taylor swift is the equivalent of someone saying "nice weather out today right?" It's like uh yeah? lIke the sun is just there. The fact that this relationship is the biggest thing in america right now is fascinating to me and not in a good way. In other news, i was just in charlottesville a few days ago and you guys. How is it that you never get sick of me? ha! I had so much fun. I can't thank you enough for all your luv and support. There's so much I want to share but due to the nature of my blog there's only so much i can say but you guys are the best. I'm traveling with to Missouri with my bf in two weeks but until then i'll be in Charlotte. I'll also be posting new pics this week. You'll have to tell me what you think of them. Hopefully see you soon.

xo,

E

[ursbearhug]

🌷💞✨ answer with 3 random facts about yourself, then send this to 10 other people 🌷💞✨

"Oh, I hate being put on the spot like this, blablabla" and then proceeds to put lil' ol' me on the spot! Anyway;

1. I genuinely and truly hate and despise and loathe and abhor and disapprove of the concept of 'meta' in gaming. I fucking hate every single bit of it. Any game; Elsword, Pokemon, League of Legends, Bloons Tower Defense 6, etc. etc. I really, truly, believe it sucks the life out of every game and makes it so unfun to play. And this is with me understanding the way that life works; for instance, Pokemon - not every Pokemon is made to be good, they're not made to be equal. Some strategies, at some point, will be doing better than others. Some units will be faring better than others. But they become structural (go *fuck* yourself de Saussure!!!) and so repetitive. Does anyone really have fun playing the same shit over and over and over again? Facing Landorous THICC, thinking of ways how to get rid of Stealth Cocks, playing the same 50/50 Sucker Punch mind games every single game. "Oh, but I have fun winning". Cool. I don't want any player to NOT have fun. I want the game to be fun myself, but I also want games to become more fluid, and more creative. This also applies to balancing the metagame because it's so fucking impossible to do in some cases like - the aforementioned - League of Legends. The player base is so fucking allergic to change and fun, they reject any fun concepts quicker than the body rejects any transplants. It's like walking on eggshells. And for some reason balancing for so many companies (I'm looking at you KoG) is about nerfing strong shit instead of buffing the lacking. You'll get into never-ending cycles this way. Or Diablo 3. This game releases patch notes every fucking half year (parabole) and they endlessly suck ass. Witch Doctor, which happens to be my favourite class, is just straight-up forced to play 3 spells every build; you will not last a second without them. How is that fun? You have 23 spells and 6 slots; every (and I mean EVERY) WD builds plays Piranhado (pixel pulling is just too good), Spirit Walk (have luck surviving without it in tightly pulled groups) and Soul Siphon (only way you'll ever reach coveted 75% damage reduction on any WD build); then every set requires you to play one supporting spell (Wall for Helltooth for instance) and one damage amp (usually with the ring of emptiness you play Loctus Swarm, but Zummimasa, for instance, has to play mana costing spell regardless of what it is) and that leaves you with one spell to play around? How is anyone having fun with this tightly cookie-cutter nonsense is beyond me, I wish I was you. Rant over and I'm so sorry.

2. Speaking of gaming! Do any of you remember when games had like… An aesthetic that they stuck to? Or a way they modelled shit? I've been heavily reminded of this when I watched someone play Sly Copper for its 10th anniversary or something. Like, I'm not the one to talk because it's not like I play 10 new games every month or top 10 games every year, but I've noticed the diminish of the style with time. Maybe it's just me but many games are striving to look like Witcher now or some shit. Graphics that would set your graphic card on fire. Processes that will murder your PC. And all of that for what??? All flash no substance. Yeah, it's nice when games look pretty but not every game needs to require the 100,000,000-dollar graphic card that is more akin to a murder weapon, than a computer part. I've been playing a lot of Guild Wars 2 lately. The game is nothing when compared to Witcher for some basic bitches; because it doesn't render every pore, every hair strand or every grain of sand; but the game is fucking beautiful. It has consistent graphical choices, it has an aesthetic it hits every time, and it is just fucking pretty. Sly Copper games received progressively better graphics - given new possibilities of player's equipment and new technology, but they retain the art, and the aesthetic it has. Fuck it, call me 'not like other girls', but I'd rather have poorly animated and pixelated Lara, over whatever the studio will hit me with when they release the new "Tomb Raider: the continuing of disappointments". And again, what is it all for? I'm not in the industry but I see merit in a lot of graphical designers and other graphical-related jobs, complaining about the poor treatment they receive, just like voice actors. They spent 4 years making a model for a game that has 8 hours of playtime and costs 200000000000 dollars and they see none of it. Give me a fucking break!

3. On a more chill note; my gay awakenings - The Agenda. Infinity from the "10+2" tv series; I've received the info that folks from America don't know it and y'all missing out! Go pirate it! (also if anyone ever wondered why I dress like a library goblin. And yes he's 50% responsible for my haircut choices). Mulan and her adventures as Ping. And also her in general; I really like that most of her adversities she overcame with wits and smarts and not brute strength, even as a man. And also… I mean. # Shang is Bi 2020? The Emperor's New Groove; because I wish I could be THIS flamboyant. I mean naturally. Also Kronk. And Yzma. That's all I'm gonna say. Brother Bear because fuck yeah power of love and friendship and growth. And also? Encanto, Frozen, Moana… They ALL want what Brother Bear has when it comes to music. Y'all can keep dreaming; Brother Bear has good genes money can't buy and I know Kenai has 3 boyfriends. And last but not least; I want whatever Yellow has in the Pokemon Manga series. I'm just sayin'

Anyway, thanks for putting me on the spot! Have a nice day~!

[akemiiiii]

Like waves crashing.

[before anything else, i know i only put my art here, but I do write from time to time hehe, so I'm sharing this one with you all, much love! I hope you enjoy it!]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“What the fuck?”

The first thing that Iwaizumi registers in his sleep-addled mind is that the bed is too soft. It did not feel like the firm mattress he always sleeps on in his apartment.

The second thing he registers is the soft scent of bergamot and pine which reminds him of Oikawa.

Which was definitely weird because Oikawa isn’t anywhere remotely near him at the moment, in fact, he clearly remembers he was 6 thousand miles away.

His eyes open to see a white ceiling, a grey duvet cover, and the king-sized bed he was currently on.

”What the fuck?”

Iwaizumi was thoroughly confused. He doesn’t remember anything that would sufficiently explain where he was.

The last thing he does remember was his sleep-deprived thoughts of missing Tooru because they’d yet to see each other for a year now and a pixelated face on a screen does not count.

And now here he is on a soft mattress that does wonders for his body, a room he does not recognize, and a scent that reminds him so much of his best friend.

“Did I die from missing Tooru so much?” Iwa anxiously gets up from the bed and heads to what he assumes is the cabinet. Right now, the idea of lying half-naked on a stranger’s bed did not seem appealing.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth for reasons unknown to him. But as Iwaizumi scrambles to open the cabinet, his sight lands on two very conspicuous shirts.

Hanging isolated on the right end of the closet was a black shirt that housed a small Japanese flag right above where a heart would be when worn. Besides the black shirt is a blue jersey, a huge ‘13’ smack right in the middle with an Argentine flag on the corner.

For the 3rd time that day, Iwaizumi curses.

Was Tooru already 1st string on his team? Was he already playing for Argentina? Wait, no, that’d be impossible Tooru would have to be an Argentine citizen for that ti happen.

Thoughts beeline in his brain, too fast for him to process. While Iwa was trying to understand what he was seeing, voices past the door of the room catch his attention.

Iwa stands still, eyes wide, fearing he’d be caught. Any hopes of these people leaving burn to dust as the knob turns slightly.

Then his eyes meet the soft brown burned and buried into his heart.

“Tooru?” Iwaizumi doesn’t take notice of the fact that Oikawa’s taller, bulkier, and more tanned. He was too happy to finally see his best friend after a year of not having him near that he barrels past the unfamiliar room to crush said man into a fierce hug.

“...Iwa-chan?” Oikawa squeaks out

“Tooru! Gods, I missed your stupid face, how are you here? Why are you here?” at this Iwa moves back to glare at the man “You better not have skipped out on your practices dumbass, you know better than to…”

“What the fuck?” The fourth curse surprisingly does not come from Iwaizumi. Well, not from the one who just bear-hugged Oikawa.

Iwa’s eyes move from Oikawa’s wide-blown eyes, past his shoulder, to see his own face staring back at him. A more muscled, more robust, maybe slightly taller version of himself.

Iwa curses for the fifth time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Wait, wait, wait, you mean to say it is currently 2024?” Iwaizumi asks this supposedly adult Tooru.

“Yeah! We’re like, 30 now, Iwa-chan!” For the most part, Tooru looks extremely amused at what was happening that he couldn’t stop looking back and forth between the younger Iwa and the older.

“Damn, Iwa-chan, look at all the wrinkles you’ve accumulated, I told you all that scowling was gonna stay.” Oikawa chatters on excitedly

“Shut up ‘kawa” On the other hand, Iwa’s older counterpart now looks on calmly, as if this mind-blowing event was a normal part of his everyday life.

“Wait, you said we’re in Japan? And we’re...living together?? What about Argentina? Did you come back to Japan after all? But that wouldn’t explain the jersey…” There was so much Iwa wanted to ask about, but these were his topmost concerns.

“Hmmm, how much am I allowed to say? Will this affect the past? How did you even get here?” Oikawa directs the first 2 questions to the Iwaizumi closer to him (the adult one) and directs the last one to the Iwa sitting in front of them.

“I suppose you can say the condition we’re in now. But not the major ones.” The adult Iwaizumi offers

“But Iwa-chan! How am I supposed to know which ones are ‘major’ ones?!” Oikawa whines out, dramatically air quoting his statement.

The older Iwa heaves a sigh and faces his counterpart, “Yeah, we’re living together, we’re in Japan, as for Argentina, you’ll know in time.”

“...Huh.” Younger Iwa just huffs at that, but living together wasn’t really a big issue, in the back of his mind, Iwa thinks he knew all along that they would end up like that anyway.

Living with your best friend doesn’t really pose any much problem for him, plus he’d get to spend the days with Oikawa at his side and take care of his dumbass, so it’d be a win-win.

Younger Iwa still doesn’t realize why exactly he was very much pleased with the information that he and Oikawa living together was a great thing.

“Wait, I wanna know how old you are though Iwa-chan, you look almost the same as I remember when we were high school, but with major eye-bags.” Oikawa shifts closer, and younger Iwa stares at the freckles prominent on his face, the wide smile, and something in him clicks.

The one difference that he couldn’t pin, the one thing that made him believe that this Tooru really wasn’t his Tooru. This Tooru exuded happiness. Exuded contentedness.

He must’ve stared too long because Oikawa’s clearing of the throat makes snaps him out of whatever he was trying to comprehend.

“..Ah. well you aren’t exactly wrong, its been a year or so after we graduated as seniors. I’m at the end of the 2nd sem of college,” Iwa explains

“Holy fuck, that’d make you 19, ah youth! You’re so young let me pinch your cheeks!” Oikawa doesn’t wait for the go before both hands grab at younger Iwa’s chubby cheeks.

“Ha-ji-me~~ your baby fats are all still here! How wonderful!”

The sudden use of first name leaves Iwa blushing in Oikawa’s hands, panicked eyes seek help from the man beside Oikawa but adult him just laughed at his plight.

“Oi, ‘Kawa stop, he’ll combust.”

“You mean, you’ll combust?” Oikawa turns his head to face his Iwaizumi and wiggles his eyebrows. Younger Iwa doesn’t miss the gleam of affection that passes his eyes, and suddenly he is very aware of the lack of insults these two were trading.

If they were them, in the future, surely they’d have the same amount of banter he and Oikawa have, right? the roughhousing and all that, right?

But the only thing Iwa sees are casual touches here and there.

Like a switch, Iwa realizes a lot of things.

The apartment seemed to only have one master bedroom. In that room was a king-sized bed. With two pillows. The closet seems to house both of their clothes.

Oikawa was leaning into adult Iwa’s space more than the usual Oikawa would have been to younger Iwa.

There was a lot of gentle and almost, Iwa daresay, loving affectionate stares the two in front of him kept having in this hour alone.

And the most glaring, most shocking, most unbelievable thing Iwa has finally, finally noticed: The shining, demanding gleam of two matching rings.

“Are you married?” Iwa blurts out, the need to know suddenly engulfing him in ways he can’t fathom. How? Why? Since when?

The two in front of him exchange glances. And as an answer, both lace their fingers together. It is the older him that speaks softly, “Yeah.”

The word silences him. Once again, thoughts swim in his mind furiously crashing back and forth like waves.

How? Did he actually love Tooru all this time or did he come to fall in love with him? Was it when they were separated??

Why? Was this a need or a want or a what? What exactly could be the reason that they’d end up married???

Since when? When did they fall in love, when did they decide on marriage, when did they realize that the other was the one person they wanted to spend their entire lives with?

Iwa’s mind was a mess, but honestly, he knew every answer. He was probably in love with his best friend. No, not probably. Definitely. He started the moment they met and never stopped.

He loved Tooru. Loved his stupid collection of alien merch, loved the way his eyes lit up when they were on call, loved the way he took the spot next to Iwa as if that was where he was always supposed to be.

Iwaizumi loved and hated the way he was separated from Tooru, because of the space it left and because of the growth it pushed in them.

In the back of his mind, Iwaizumi hoped, wished, and knew that whatever their future may be, he’d always be beside Tooru, even if they were physically apart.

He’d known for years now that his future would have been with Tooru because the only future he pictured himself happy was with Tooru.

Fuck, he was in love with his best friend.

“Holy shit.” Iwa breathes out.

“Yep. Hard to swallow that you’re in love with this ass right?” Older him chuckles out, nudging Oikawa’s shoulder

“Hey! I’m a fine piece of ass. You’re lucky enough you got me!” Oikawa shoves back, the smile evident behind his pouting face.

“I really am.” The casual confidence in which his adult self replies to this is another blow to Iwa.

He fell in love with his best friend.

He gets to live with his best friend.

He gets to marry his best friend.

He gets to spend the rest of his life loving the person who has always made his soul feel alive.

“I love that I’m getting to see firsthand your reaction to realizing you’re in love with me.” Oikawa pinches the younger Iwa’s cheek with his free hand, and all pleasant thoughts of Tooru fly away, getting replaced with irritation at his smug smile.

“Well, knowing me, you have no other option but to fall in love with me Iwa-chan. I mean really, did you really think you’d get rid of me that easily?? My bi realization happened in junior high, you shit!”

Oikawa’s hold on his cheek strengthens, as he forcefully wiggles Iwa’s face right and left. Adult Iwa was apparently finding it amusing.

“Like what the hell! You were up in my room all shirtless in summer when it’s hot! And sweat!! And you had the fucking gall to play wrestle me without even knowing the internal turmoil I was having!”

Oikawa finally lets go of his abused cheeks, it was probably beet red from the amount of force he used to pinch, but also because of the words Oikawa was spewing.

“To be fair, ‘kawa, you liked the play wrestles because you said it gave you a reason to touch the developing muscles I had.” adult Iwa smooths over.

“It was still unfair because up until we were seniors I was literally dropping hints left and right and the entire fuckin’ team knew, and you were still there being the slowest idiot I have ever encountered in my life. Even your parents knew, how slow can you be Iwa-chan?”

Oikawa’s glare was directed at older Iwa, but it could have also been aimed at him from the amount of mortification he had. So that was why Oikawa loved holding hands when going home back then.

“Ah, the sweet taste of knowing the exact moment you realized you love me. Can’t believe it took for you to meet the future us to fucken know. Iwa-chan, you a rare breed.” Oikawa winks at him.

Older Iwa snorts, “Oh my god, never use that phrase again Tooru, what the fuck” He shoves him playfully, while Oikawa just wiggles his eyebrow back at him, prompting older Iwa’s fuller laugh.

And seeing this domestic scene in front of him somehow calms Iwaizumi enough to the point that everything in the world rearranges itself because he has found the answer that settles his very core.

“Ah. Times up.” Older Iwa says, looking straight at him. He dons a secretive smile, and for some reason, Iwa understands that he’s probably going to go back to the past now.

“Wait, last thing, are we happy? together?” Iwa frantically asks. Because no matter how he wants what this future paints, he wants what makes Oikawa happiest the most.

Adult Oikawa moves closer to him, leaving a lingering kiss on his forehead. “Ah, my Iwa-chan, I was never, will never be not happy when I’m with you. Now off you go! Don’t make things too hard for me, ‘kay?”

A last caress is what Iwa feels before he wakes up back in his shitty apartment with clustered notes and dirty laundry. It was currently afternoon, which means Tooru would be lounging in his own bed, probably reading.

Iwaizumi picks up his phone to ring him immediately. It’s answered in less than a minute, and the fluffy cocoon blanket of Tooru is what greets him first, before the scrunched-up nose of his best friend.

“You’re late Iwa-chan! Did you forget about lil’ ol’ me?” He pouts, and even though he was just with Tooru a second ago, he missed this Tooru still.

“Never. Hey Tooru.” The first name surprises Tooru, a blush rising, and before he would’ve just waved that off, but now that Iwa knows what he knows, he can easily see the pleased and happy gleam Tooru feels.

“Hey Hajime. So, how was your day?”

Iwa opens his mouth to tell him what he had just experienced, but adult Oikawa’s last words ring in his mind. It wouldn’t be fun at all if Hajime makes it known that he knows Tooru likes him, and him vice versa would it?

He closes his mouth and hides a grin. Nope. Not fun at all. Guess he’ll let things flow for now and keep Tooru at his feet. Someones gotta have to, right?

“Nothing much, I just woke up late, anyways tell me that gossip you had with your Abuela.”

“Oh yeah!! Iwa-chan you won’t believe what's happened, Juan’s partner got…”

Really, Iwaizumi muses that he should have realized long ago that he can’t imagine anybody else’s voice filling up his days in the future.

[Ok omg, tell me what you think, I know there're probably a lot of errors in grammar, hshshs, i'm still trying to get a hang of writing :D, I really hope you enjoyed reading this !!]

[clumsyclifford]

lashton prompt: luke falling asleep on skype and ashton taking the opportunity to draw him, bonus if someone else finds the sketches before ashton shows them to luke

meghna this prompt is from almost a full calendar year ago. i am proud to report that after all this time i did in fact manage to set it in spideyverse because that’s how determined i am. more info in ao3 notes but it takes place in the summer before their senior year of high school, so after the events of everything else in spideyverse so far

read here on ao3

-

Ashton will have to thank Maya later for the tip about the Fine Arts Room. He jimmies the door handle and, as promised, the door swings opens to reveal a darkened room full of half-finished projects. They must really take the decency of humanity on faith here. Anyone could come in at any time and sabotage any of this work.

Ashton has less nefarious plans.

He sits at his usual spot but doesn’t turn any lights on; the big windows shine just enough moonlight into the room that Ashton can see the silhouettes of the furniture, and his laptop will be on in a moment anyway. Careful of the scattered pages over his workspace, he opens his computer and loads up Skype. 

Just in time for an incoming call.

Ashton fumbles with his headphones and plugs them in with one hand while he accepts the call with the other. The screen fills with Luke’s brightly-lit, highly pixelated face. Chin in his hands, elbows propped on his desk, hair a ruffled mess (from the mask, Ashton knows) — the sight of him fills Ashton with warmth.

“Hey,” Luke says, smiling his usual cheeky smile. They’ve been texting sporadically, but seeing Luke’s face — hearing his voice — gives Ashton a fluttery feeling behind his sternum. Calum would call that anatomically impossible, but he’d do it with a smirk. “I can barely see you.”

“I’m sitting in the dark,” Ashton explains. His voice is a hushed whisper even though he knows it’s absurd to be paranoid. They’re supposed to be confined to their bunks by now, and the staff and counselors will all be asleep. The only reason he and Luke are calling now, past midnight, is because now is the only time they’re both available. “I’m in the Fine Arts Room.”

��Ooh, can I see?”

“I don’t want to turn on the lights,” Ashton says. “There are windows and stuff.”

“Are you not supposed to be there?” Luke raises an eyebrow and grins. “Ooh, is Ashton Irwin sneaking around?”

“Well, if we weren’t calling at the middle of the night, I wouldn’t have to.”

“Don’t they lock the buildings?” Luke suddenly looks concerned.

Ashton shrugs. “Maya told me that if I jiggle the handle, the door will open. She was right.”

“Go Maya,” Luke says. “I like Maya. Who’s Maya?”

“My new friend,” says Ashton. “She mostly paints. We’ve got a challenge going on about whether she’s better at drawing or I’m better at painting, since neither of us really use those mediums. Hannah — one of the other campers — is going to find something for us to both paint slash draw and then there’ll be an unofficial panel of judges. It’s pretty stupid.”

“You’re smiling a lot,” Luke says, and Ashton realizes he is. “Doesn’t sound stupid to me. You think you’re gonna win?”

“No,” Ashton says honestly. “I’m pretty awful at painting.”

“I’m sure you’re better than you think. How hard can it be?”

“That’s very rich coming from you, Mr. I-Can’t-Draw-A-House.”

“Hey, fuck off! I can draw a house, thank you very much.” Luke looks down at his desk and his focus shifts, and Ashton watches in bemused patience. As he waits, he draws a blank piece of paper towards him and grabs the nearest pencil lying around. His hands move almost unconsciously, drawing lines and curves and sketching the outline of something Ashton hasn’t quite decided on yet. Luke finally lifts his head up. “Here, see?” He holds up a piece of paper to the camera, where he’s drawn a box with an isosceles triangle on top for the roof, complete with a little chimney sticking out. “House,” Luke proudly declares. “Boom. Get fucked, Irwin.”

“I stand corrected,” Ashton chuckles. He hums. “They’ll probably just find us equally talented because painting is different from drawing and blah blah blah artsy hipster bullshit.”

“Stop dismissing the artsy hipster bullshit,” Luke says stubbornly. “I’ll have you know my boyfriend deals exclusively in artsy hipster bullshit.”

“You think my drawings are artsy hipster bullshit?”

“No, babe, I think you are artsy hipster bullshit.” Luke grins widely and then gets cut off by a yawn. Ashton bites back a very cheesy comment about how Luke should web himself up for being criminally cute.

“You know what, I’m gonna let you have that one,” he says instead. “Since I am at an artsy hipster bullshit summer camp.”

“I miss you.” Luke pouts. It’s a funny look on him. Ashton tries to imagine Spiderman pouting and completely fails. Sometimes it’s hard for him to reconcile Luke and Spiderman being the same person. That this adorable six-foot-and-change beanstalk who yawns on Skype is the same person who can do a double-backflip and land on his feet on the rooftop of any building. Ashton’s boyfriend stops crimes. What the fuck.

“I miss you too,” he says. “You seem tired.”

“I’m not tired.” Instant karma is a bitch. Luke immediately yawns again, this time much wider. “Okay, I’m a little tired,” he admits, smacking his lips like a child. “Summer break is deceptively boring. I…I run out of things to do all day, so I just kinda…keep patrolling. I might be wearing myself out.”

“Jesus, Luke, take it easy on yourself. Queens goes the entire school day without Spiderman’s protection during the school year. You can handle a break.”

“Yeah, but I might as well patrol,” Luke counters. “I have the time, and it’s not like I’m doing anything else.”

“I thought you and Michael were working on new specs for the suit.”

“It’s mostly Michael. Also, I think he’s kind of annoyed about the whole 24/7 patrol. He can’t work on the suit if I’m wearing it.”

“That is true.”

“But he’s been spending a lot of his time with Calum, anyway,” Luke says coolly. “So I figure he’s probably got other priorities.”

“Well, if you keep blowing him off to obsessively patrol the city, I can’t possibly imagine why he’s making other plans.” 

Luke stares through the camera. His shoulders slump. “Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Ashton chirps.

Luke sighs deeply. “You’re not here, Ash.”

Ashton purses his lips and frowns. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, but I’m just saying. I miss you. I wish you were here.”

“Yeah,” Ashton says. He misses Luke too, more than is probably healthy. That’s what he gets, he supposes, for only having a handful of close relationships; Luke and Calum are his whole life, and not being able to hug either one of them for even a week has been pretty challenging. “But look, it’s only another week, and then I am all yours, I swear.”

“Don’t enable me,” Luke says, affronted. “You’re supposed to say things like… ‘You don’t own me’ and ‘I’m my own person’ and stuff like that.”

Ashton blinks, confused. “Uh…well, yeah, but we both already know that. I’m just saying I miss you too. But if it’s any consolation, Maya has ruthlessly mocked me for all the drawings I do of you. Like mercilessly. It’s actually kind of embarrassing.”

“That is super embarrassing,” Luke says, with a small, bashful smile. “You’re so fucking lame, Ashton.”

“Wow,” Ashton says. “You even sound like her.”

Luke giggles, which turns seamlessly into a yawn. “Hey, I came first. Maya sounds like me.”

“Luke, babe, just go to sleep,” Ashton says. “We can talk another night. Maybe one where you’re more well-rested.”

“I’m super rested,” Luke says in a monotone. “King of restedness, me.”

“Wow, I’m suddenly convinced.” Luke makes a half-hearted face at him and Ashton makes one back. The sketch under Ashton’s pencil has revealed itself to be Luke, yet again. Shocker. It really is embarrassing that Ashton defaults to drawing his boyfriend. If they ever break up, Ashton will be fucked.

“Are you drawing?” Trust Luke to notice. Although the fact that it’s taken him this long to notice means he must be slower on the uptake than usual. 

“Yeah,” Ashton says, because when is he not. 

“Drawing what?”

“Guess,” Ashton says dryly.

Luke gives a sleepy smile. “At least you’re predictable.”

“Luke, I’m begging you to get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow or this weekend or something, okay?”

Luke yawns yet again. “Okay,” he agrees, right hand propping up his head. His eyes flutter shut and then open again. “Okay, fine.”

“And please let Michael look at your suit,” Ashton adds. “You know he’s only going to make it better.”

“I know, I know, I just…” Luke’s eyes fall shut again. It seems more out of tiredness than distress. “If I give it to him, then I can’t use it.”

Ashton’s pretty sure if Luke’s hero complex gets any bigger he’s going to have to start renting out rooms. “It’ll be two days, tops,” he says. “Take two days off.”

“I wanna wait ‘til you’re back,” Luke mumbles. “Spend ‘em with you.”

“You spend most of your time with me,” Ashton says gently. “Spend them with Michael. Hell, spend them with Cal.”

“But I want…” Luke yawns. He lists sideways a little. “I want you.”

Ashton chews his lip. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he says. “You won’t be able to get rid of me.”

Luke hums absently. “‘Kay, g’night,” he slurs, but makes no gesture to hang up the call. He probably expects Ashton to end it. If Luke is as asleep as he looks right now, Ashton kind of has to.

The graphite on the sketch paper is smudging a little. Ashton glances down at the half-assed likeness of his boyfriend and has an idea.

Quietly, he grabs another blank page, moves his laptop back a little, and starts to draw.

-

They’re up bright and early the next day, and after breakfast Ashton follows a decidedly more lively Maya into the Fine Arts Room, where she takes her place diagonally from him at their table. They’re both mid-project; Ashton stacks and sets aside his scratch papers and pulls forth the drawing he’s currently working on.

“So? You talked to Luke?”

Ashton blinks and looks up at Maya. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks for the tip, I meant to say.”

“Hey, don’t thank me, thank Cupid,” Maya says airily. “I’m on the side of love, baby.”

Ashton snorts and rolls his eyes. “Let Cupid know I say thanks.”

Maya hums. “Cupid says you’re welcome.”

They’re quiet while Maya gets herself set up — she has to put all her acrylics back every evening only to set them back out every morning, another reason Ashton prefers pencils over paints — and Ashton picks up his pencil and starts to draw. 

“Is this yours?” Maya asks, peering at Ashton’s discarded stack of sketches.

“Yeah,” Ashton says without looking. “Just sketches and stuff.”

“Wait, this is so cute.” She’s leaning over the drawing on the top. Ashton glances up.

It’s Luke from last night, soundly asleep over Skype.

Ashton had ended the call after about ten minutes of silence, enough time to get the rough outlines of all the important shapes. The video quality wouldn’t have lent itself to a good sketch anyway if Ashton had been chasing authenticity, but fortunately he knows Luke’s face well enough — both from drawing it and gazing at it in real life — to pretend the call had had a crystal-clear picture. None of it is colored in, but it’s as obviously Luke as all of Ashton’s other drawings. Somehow, though, this one feels more personal.

“Did you draw this last night?”

“Uh,” Ashton says, reaching for the drawing. He shuffles it between several other papers so an innocuous collection of doodles is now at the top of the stack, and Maya clicks her tongue in disapproval.

“Hey, I was looking at that. It was cute.”

“Yeah, it’s— it’s just nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, it’s adorable,” Maya says. She fixes him with puppy-dog eyes. “Pleeeease can I see it? I won’t show anyone. I’m studying so I can kick your ass in our competition.”

Ashton sighs. “It’s just Luke. You’ve seen millions of drawings of him.”

“But those were obviously from memory,” Maya points out, taking his non-answer as an affirmative and sifting through the stack. Ashton doesn’t bother trying to stop her. It’s not like he has anything to hide — or at least not anything Maya could figure out by looking at the drawing.

And in her defense, Luke does look cute as fuck in the drawing, because he’d looked cute as fuck in real life.

“For all you know, this one is also from memory.”

“You drew the screen, Ash, it’s clearly from last night.”

“Well,” Ashton says diplomatically. Then he abandons diplomacy, because Maya has located the drawing and is grinning and aww-ing. “Well do you blame me? He fell asleep on our call. It was adorable.”

Maya giggles. “You guys are so fucking cute,” she says. “Y’know, most people would be insulted if their boyfriend fell asleep on a video call with them.”

“He’s been really busy lately,” Ashton says. “And it was the end of the call anyway.”

“One day, I will have someone to draw me when I fall asleep on our Skype calls,” Maya says wistfully. “I’m putting the vibes out into the universe so it’ll happen soon.”

“Maybe you’ll be the one drawing them,” Ashton points out. 

Maya finally sets down the Luke drawing. She dips her brush in red paint, clearly intending to put it into her work, but at Ashton’s words instead brandishes it threateningly at him. “I won’t be drawing anyone, buddy.”

Ashton laughs. “But you’d date someone who drew instead of painted?”

“At this point?” Maya sighs theatrically. “I’d date just about anyone who did anything.”

Ashton laughs again. They work quietly for a few minutes. Ashton starts shading.

“Why do you only ever draw Luke?” Maya asks. “You said you’ve been together for less than a year. Who were you drawing before then?”

Ashton shrugs. “Uh, anyone, really,” he says. “People. There are a lot of pretty interesting people at my school, and besides, I’m from the city.”

Maya snorts derisively. “You’re from Queens.”

“Queens is in the city.”

Another derisive snort. “Queens is in the city the same way using ink stamps is painting.”

“That’s not even a little bit the same thing, at all.”

“You’re not a city boy.”

“I am literally a city boy!” Maya waves him off, but Ashton ignores her. She’s from Massachusetts. She has no leg to stand on. “My point is that there are lot of interesting people near where I live, too.”

“You didn’t ever, I don’t know, draw your friends? Calum, didn’t you say he’s your best friend from home?”

“Ah, yeah,” Ashton says. “Calum. Didn’t like when I drew him.”

“What, seriously? Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Ashton says, and it’s true. “He just asked me to stop drawing him one day so I did.” He hesitates. “...Mostly. Sometimes I still do. But if you knew Calum you’d understand why. He’s extremely good-looking.”

“Of course he is,” Maya says. “Any chance he’s single and/or interested in women from several states away?”

“No to both questions,” Ashton says sympathetically. “But good try.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Maya says good-naturedly, and they lapse into silence again.

It’s broken by Maya, again. “Do you show Luke the drawings you do of him?”

That’s a complicated question. No, Ashton doesn’t actively show his drawings to Luke, but Luke usually sees them anyway. Some of them are more private; Ashton keeps the one of Luke in the Spiderman suit sans mask folded up in the bottom of his socks drawer where he’s pretty certain no one ever looks. There doesn’t seem to be a point to showing it to Luke now, so long after he’d actually done it. But for the most part he’s not hiding his art from Luke; Luke sees what he sees, notwithstanding Ashton’s intention.

“Sometimes,” Ashton says.

Maya nods at the drawing of Luke asleep on Skype. “You gonna show him that one?”

“Uh, probably not.”

“What, why? It’s so cute.”

“I don’t know, maybe because it makes me seem like a ridiculous lovesick borderline creepy idiot?”

“Guys love that,” Maya assures him. “Or so I’m told. C’mon, why hold out on him when he already knows you’re basically obsessed with drawing him?” She taps the drawing. “And when he looks this adorable?”

Ashton breathes a laugh. “You have a point.”

“I always do,” Maya says, and she flips her hair dramatically.

Maybe Michael would let Ashton draw him. That would be a nice change from always drawing Luke and never drawing Calum. Maybe Ashton could just do it and then ask Michael what he thinks. It would be nice to have new muses. Ashton has spent a lot of time on Luke; maybe it’s about time he branched out again.

“Hey,” Ashton says, struck with inspiration as he watches Maya make brushstrokes across her paper. “Can I draw you?”

“Hell yeah, go for it,” Maya says. “I’m not sitting still for you, though.”

“I’ll live,” Ashton says dryly. Maya grins and laughs. A fresh page before Ashton and a new pencil in his hand, he studies Maya’s profile carefully and then brings his pencil to the page.

-

“Did you break into the Fine Arts Room again?”

“I don’t think it’s breaking in if it’s technically unlocked,” Ashton points out.

Luke squints but evidently fails to argue with this logic. “How’s artsy hipster bullshit camp?”

“Really good,” Ashton says, cracking his knuckles. His parents have told him repeatedly that doing so will give him arthritis, but Ashton suspects that’s more of a scare tactic than a fact. At this point he doubts even rehab could get him to stop. It’s the only thing Ashton can think to do with his hands when he’s not drawing. “By the way, remember the other day when you fell asleep on our call?”

I fell asleep at the end of our call,” Luke corrects him. “We were done talking.”

“Okay, weirdo,” Ashton says, shaking his head. “Well, anyway, Maya convinced me that I should show you this because maybe you’d think it was cute, or something.” He holds up the drawing of Luke.

Luke leans closer to the camera. Anyone else might have trouble discerning what’s on the page given how dim it is around Ashton, but not Luke. Luke has super-senses. His visual acuity is, like, a thousand. (Rough estimate.)

So when Luke’s face splits into a grin, Ashton knows he’s seen exactly what’s there. “Oh my fucking God, you sap,” he says. “I thought you just hung up straightaway.” 

“Nope,” Ashton says. “I’m just saving moments. One day I’ll have enough for a flip book.”

Luke’s expression goes all mushy and heart-eyed. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, fond and endeared. “I can’t believe you’re not bored of my dumb face yet.”

“Are you kidding? Have you seen your dumb face?” Ashton laughs. “It’s impossible to be bored of it.”

“Ashton,” Luke says, his eyes crinkling so much that the blue all but disappears. “I love you.”

And everything makes sense.

“I love you too,” Ashton says, struck by the realization that he does. The drawings, the midnight Skype calls, the death-defying trips around the city with only his faith in Luke to keep them afloat, the fluttery feeling — all of the colors lock into place, and Ashton can see the rainbow clear as day in front of him. He’s never been in love; of course he couldn’t tell. But there’s nothing else it could be.

“Oh, good,” Luke says timidly. “I was a little worried you wouldn’t say it back.”

Ashton glances from the drawing in his hand to the look on Luke’s face on the screen, and he cracks a crooked smile. “Then you, superhero, have not been paying attention.”

[momtemplative]

Summertime.

Summertime is fucking awesome for a kid.

I remember entire days—chunks of days— that were spent at the pool, with Will Smith’s SummaSummaSummaTime bumping through the loud speakers while we ate nachos with fake cheese for lunch with our wrinkly, chlorine-sodden fingers. For months, everything smelled with a hint of chlorine and freedom. Open expanses of time were glorious.

Then I had kids. 

With kids and summer, there is a lot to consider, a grand choreography to uphold. I always lose sleep before summer. It feels as if my role jumps from “parent” to “coordinator of peace and good times for three straight months,” (even typing all that was exhausting), where everyone is entertained, but not too entertained, happy, but not overly happy, everyone has a routine, but plenty of time for spontaneity, and so on! YAY!

Like all grand puppet-masters, I feel deeply anxious before the show even begins. Damn you, summer!

Summer is just the right length where we can get through it, at times gliding through mercifully, at times, hanging on to all the tow-ropes and oh-shit handles we can find along the way. The number of kid meltdowns and sibling fista-cuffs greatly increases as we near the finish line. The phrase, “We’ll try and get you some space,” is utilized daily. Then, when school starts again, we all heave a sigh of relief that is audible for blocks. 

I wasn’t fully aware of the amount of time and energy that went to keeping the machine-of-summer afloat. Until COVID and our involuntary exposure therapy. We were thrust into “summer” two-and-a-half months early, without warning and without any external supports. It felt like some bizarre test in endurance. Like our human capacity for resilience was being evaluated for future generations. There was no more just getting through. We were thrown in way too deep for that. We had to figure out how to function, how to grow and maintain sanity because, for this version of summer, there really is no finish line.

After the first two COVID-weeks of being at home with the kids, no work or school (or online school at that point), no activities or playdates, no outside world to depend on, I fell apart. As in, to pieces—the way one does when they are trying to hold everything together. The uptick in fights, tantrums and explosive emotions, with no end in sight, was too much to process.

After a few hours of wallowing, I picked myself up and pulled down a pile of books from the shelf that have added perspective in the past—Siblings without Rivalry, The Wisdom of No Escape, Care of the Soul. The words were nice, but nothing cut through the wall of despondency. So I pulled out my phone and searched “Siblings Fighting” on my Janet Lansbury podcast, smearing tears as I went.

(A note here on Janet Lansbury. As a parent of young kids, no one person has benefited my faculties, mental health and wit more than Janet. Her podcast is rich with real-life wisdom that changes the experience of parenthood for the better.)

In the random sibling-titled podcast that I discovered—from years ago, but still, obviously, totally current—Janet was replying to a woman who had three young kids and was losing her mind trying to maintain tranquility in her house. The woman said something to the effect of, it would have been so much easier if I’d only had one.

To this, Janet replied with what felt, to me, like a beautiful and classic snap-out-of-it moment. She said, No. I disagree. Followed by something to the order of this: When you have one child, you can still live under the illusion that you can keep everyone happy. When you have two kids, you start to see that it’s really tough, damn near impossible, to keep everyone happy and peaceful, but you may still try. With three kids, you have the gift of experiencing first hand that the jig is up! No matter what kind of tiny-statue-winning show you maintain, there is no way in hell you can keep three young kids peaceful all the time. So you are forced to stop trying. 

I came to the conclusion that COVID is my third child. 

And with that thought—like the scene in Mary Poppins where the messy room gets magically tidied as if from an internal intelligence all its own—my insides were completely fresh, organized, and updated. My energy quadrupled.

With the externals turned down, with nowhere to go, and all of us cohabiting the same tiny shoebox of a house, it’s not going to be business-as-usual for quite some time. And we’ll all fare better with adjusted expectations. We are all in a fishbowl and, while clocking in endless hours together, I saw right-quick the laundry lists of things I feigned having control of: my girls and their interactions, potty training for Ruth, the weather (which rules if we can or cannot get outside), my mood, Jesse’s mood. 

Janet says, wake up expecting turmoil—then you won't make it your job to live free of it, get rid of it, fix it, numb it. Discord is healthy. Emotions are healthier. Don’t dive in and ride the waves with your kids, stand back and watch, give them space, be there for them to come back to shore. The last thing they need is a mom who is also out of breath, scraped up and with sand in her ears. I don’t need to be Queen Empress of their journey as siblings. I don’t need to have a say in every nuance, every detail and pixel of this habitat. 

And, she says, give yourself permission to flounder, too. Always, but especially right now. Some moments just feel brutally claustrophobic—we can be ready for that. A few days ago, I started crying while Jesse was giving me a shoulder massage. No warning, just did. I had a major-headache and I couldn’t think straight. Opal said, “Mom, are you crying?” SO defensive, I said, “I feel like I’m under a magnifying glass!” and ran out of the room. And sometimes it just goes like that. (I apologized to Opal soon thereafter.) If my emotions are coming out sideways like this—at 42 and with thousands of dollars under my belt spent on therapy—imagine what our sweet kiddos are going through!

And sometimes things settle organically into their rightful place, without force or manipulation. Today, I was lying on the floor in the hallway—not an unusual sight in the middle of the day for me to have my legs up a wall for a short period of time. This time, Ruth was in the bathroom in the tub, the door open to my right. She was acting out a full drama with her Elsa and Anna barbies. Opal was behind her bedroom door, which was closed, reachable by raising my right arm. She was doing her singing lessons over Skype, crooning her gorgeous little heart out. Jesse was behind door number three, our closed bedroom door, easily reached by my left hand. He was talking on the phone in hushed tones to who-knows-who. Three completely separate worlds were happening peacefully, simultaneously, all within my arm’s reach. It was a tiny little subculture, and I was in the middle, observant and spacious, not expending even the slightest molecule of energy. 

If anything, I was bolstered as a part of this whole, the Grimes system, my family.  And there were a few cherished minutes to get lost inside of that settled feeling, which is becoming less and less rare, before Ruth hollered that she needed to pee and I snapped back to attention. 

So here we are, nearing the end of the first official week of summer. No public pool or Will Smith or finger-paint-yellow nacho cheese. I can’t quite fathom a summer without any of the norms—camps and playdates and travel. For now, no public places, parks, or our blessed little library.

Things are starting to slowly open again, though I suppose they have been for weeks now. We have taken two magnificent walks with our close friends—socially distanced and masked. It’s still strange, but a step forward, no doubt. Cultivating moments of connection like these, situations hinged in community—even if virtual—are key in maintaining some sense of equanimity as time moves forward. 

(PS: This is utterly different from the work of the puppet-master.)

Though time feels anything but linear. I flash-forward to the image of my daughters ten, twenty, years from now, reminiscing about the COVID era with their friends. (Six feet apart on walks, remember? The masks, OMG, the MASKS!) I think back to when I was a kid and scour the already-murky memories for some example of a comparable viewpoint, something I can offer to my girls, tell them I had been through something similar when I was their age. But I come up with nothing, nada. 

We are all writing this story as we go.

May 27, 2020

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

halloween special 2019

(Or, Halloween Special 2027, because this is set immediately after Turnabout Academy but contains no reference to it besides the fact that Juniper exists.)

A Fae AU side story. A classic meme of the autumnal season gets a cannibal joke twist, and the real horror story is the friends we made along the way. Written with the profoundest apologies to the professor from whom I took an entire semester course on Edgar Allan Poe. 

----

It still feels like the crack of dawn, after the week they’ve had, but dawn is admittedly later in late October, and the sun is already risen, so it’s not early at all. It’s no one’s problem but Phoenix’s own that his brain is still zombified. Trucy woke him up, flinging her things all around the apartment to get ready to head out: Juniper has joined her trick-or-treating group that already consisted of Trucy, Vera, Jinxie, Athena, and Pearl, and Pearl still doesn’t have a costume, and now neither does Juniper, and Vera hasn’t finished making hers, and it’s T-minus two days until Halloween.

So he scrambled some eggs for his daughter and ushered her out the door after making her promise to say hi to all of the other girls for him, and then he crawled back into bed. Barely three minutes after, his phone rang. That was marginally better than his phone ringing once he had fallen back asleep, but this deprives him of the chance of going back to sleep at all, probably, and actually it’s not better. Phoenix doesn’t know why he thought that. He squints at the tiny screen on his phone to see that an impossible amount of symbols, including what looks like some Japanese characters, a pentagram, and a simplified pixel art hand making a middle finger. 

“Hello, Maya.”

“Niiick! I need you to settle a dispute!”

Phoenix groans. “Between who?”

“Hello.” Iris’ voice comes through as clear as Maya’s, clearer than humans ever are on phone calls. Magical speakerphone. Phoenix drops his face into his pillow. 

“Iris says that the only one of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories to involve cannibalism was his one weird-ass novel that he never finished. But he’s gotta have had more than that right? He strikes me as a cannibalism kinda dude.”

“I don’t know,” Phoenix mumbles into his pillow, and then, resigned to his fate, he lifts his head and repeats clearly, “I don’t know. I’m not the literature guy.” He knows Shakespeare, and what he knows about Shakespeare is that he needs to keep Maya away from it, else she might decide that Puck is a role model. “Iris would have more of an idea than me.”

“Nick! You can’t take your ex’s side over me!”

Iris giggles in the background. “This is an argument about objective facts, Maya,” Phoenix says. “I’m not ‘taking sides’ personally.”

“Okay, but, Montressor was definitely saving Fortunado down there to chill him to a good eating temperature and then have him as a snack with the Amontillado. Like that’s gotta be why he killed him that way.”

That’s one of the few Poe stories Phoenix knows. He can answer this one. “There was no Amontillado,” he says wearily. “That was the whole point of the story, Maya. He lied about having the fancy wine to get Fortunado down to the catacombs because that was the best place to kill him quietly. There wasn’t any cask of Amontillado.”

Maya gasps. “What?” She sounds so betrayed that Phoenix almost laughs and almost feels bad. “He lied? He can’t lie!”

Now Phoenix does laugh. “What, did you think he was fae because elaborately killing someone for some unmentioned slights is a fae thing to do?” She sounds more scandalized at the lie part that the murder part, which, for anyone even slightly versed in fae culture, does make sense. 

“Well—” Maya sputters. “Yeah!” She heaves an exaggeratedly loud sigh. “I guess The Cask of Amontillado really isn’t a story that implies cannibalism.”

“There was other wine in the wine cellar where he walled up Fortunado,” Iris says. “Perhaps one of those would pair with him just as well for Montressor’s meal as you imagine the Amontillado would.”

“You don’t need to patronize me,” Maya says, sounding less irritable than Phoenix expects. “But, oh, Nick, other question! Why would the narrator, obviously possessing greater strength and no morals, not simply eat the old man so as to get rid of his creepy staring eye and better muffle the treacherous tattletale heart?”

“Telltale,” Iris says. Maya groans at the correction.

“Bitch-ass snitch,” Phoenix says.

“No,” Iris says. “Definitely not. Now, to return to the heart of your question, Mystic—”

Maya and Phoenix both snicker. What follows is not a long silence, but it is a loaded one, and then Iris resumes speaking, her clipped tone betraying her annoyance with the inadvertent pun. “The heartbeat was not a real sound,” she explains, “but rather the psychological manifestation of his guilt at committing the murder.”

“Oh,” Maya says. “So it’s like when you want to get coffee you have to have a barista make it and hand you the cup because if you tried to serve yourself from a machine it always explodes back in your face. It’s not the machine that hates you, it’s you who hates you, and the machine is the expression of it!”

“That is…” Iris trails off, clicking her tongue in thought. “Actually, yes, similar, though no one but the narrator could hear the sound of the heart.”

“So he wasn’t fae either,” Maya says. “Otherwise the whole house would’ve been, ba-dum! That they all felt it! And then probably it would explode.”

“Y’know, if he had eaten the old man,” Phoenix says, because sometimes it is fun, a flex of creative muscles he doesn’t usually get to stretch, to play along with Maya when she has her inane musings, “he still would’ve heard the heart beating, right, because it was just in his head. But instead of yelling at the cops that it was under the floorboards—”

Maya knows where he’s going with it immediately; either he knows the way she thinks too well, or she knows him. “—dude woulda been yelling about hearing it in his own stomach. Man, can you imagine? You’re just some beat cop coming in to investigate and then the guy starts shrieking about killing a dude but instead of starting to tear up the floorboards to show you the body he starts trying to claw open his own stomach?”

Phoenix considers that. He decides that yeah, it would be pretty far over on the scale of fucked-up things he’s seen as a lawyer. Sort of like Matt Engarde tearing up his own face in despair and fury, but also way worse because it would involve definite cannibalism and possible disembowelment, depending on how far the narrator got in his attempts. “Yep,” he says. “That’d be fucked up.”

“You could write it,” Iris says. “Poe is public domain, is he not, and you an adult man who could get away with it under the name of ‘literary reimagining’ rather than it being called ‘fanfiction’.”

“No thanks,” Phoenix says. “I’m not gonna be the man who messes with the classics.” He’d pitch the idea to Larry if Larry made his name on literally anything other than wholesome life-affirming picture books. Actually, he still wouldn’t, because Larry is an artist as well as a writer and there’d be a chance that he’d turn it into painting rather than prose and that is a level of horror Phoenix doesn’t want to go to. Better just to stay on the level of Maya reading cannibalism into every horror story that crosses her path. 

(Would Athena call that projection? He is not going to think about that any longer.)

“Glad anyway you could help with our dispute,” Maya says. “Cuz” - she’s never settled on one nickname for Iris, but cousin or a derivation usually means she’s not angry with her - “was getting wistful when Pearly went off to talk shop with all your daughters, so she wanted to get in the holiday spirit and it spiraled. I made it spiral.”

As tends to happen around there. As Maya is wont to do. Phoenix isn’t surprised. He also decides to ignore the “daughters” remark. It’s not worth arguing that Trucy is his only daughter, and okay maybe Vera half counts, but on the other end of the spectrum, he’s known Juniper for not even a week. 

So instead he voices the matter that is bothering him. He’s afraid to speak it into the world lest she hadn’t thought about it, but he also needs to be prepared. “So, Maya,” he begins warily, “you planning on venturing out for Halloween?” 

He’s dreaded this holiday ever since that first year, when she figured out what trick-or-treat meant and decided that this was the most fae of holidays, what with one being allowed to threaten and extort strangers for goodies. It’s more blatant than the fae usually are, even. That first year, he had to keep her entertained and distracted all night, with candy and other sugary sweets and campy movies, so she couldn’t go and fulfill her suggestion of egging Edgeworth’s car as revenge for him being “a huge douchebag to us in court”. She had gotten the eggs ahead of time and stashed them in his fridge so at eleven they made a run to the corner store for other ingredients to teach her how to make omelets. 

“Nah, don’t worry, I’m staying right here. Pearly can have her fun. But you and I are totally on for our post-Halloween bargain bin on-sale candy shopping spree. You’re buying! It’s tradition.”

“Huh?” It happening three years in a row, and then not for the next seven years, does not a tradition make. “Objection!”

“Nope!” She sounds positively gleeful; he can picture exactly what her smile looks like, how wide and toothy. “Ignored! What’s it that judges say again - overruled! You are overruled! And your penalty is reading Poe for a refresher so we can talk about it more! We need to talk about the one with the cat because I can’t decide if the cat is fae! Or even if it’s one cat! I want everyone’s input!”

His phone display shows a pixel jack-o-lantern with a grin in a probable approximation of Maya’s. He drops his head back onto his pillow. “Goodbye, Maya.” 

The second Halloween, they carved pumpkins in the office; Pearl demanded they not have scary faces, Maya ate half of the seeds even before they roasted them, and Phoenix tried not to think about how last year at that time Edgeworth was around that they could consider the prospect of egging his car. When they dropped pumpkin guts on the floor, Mia flung it right back at them to get it stuck in their hair. The third year, they brought Pearl along for candy shopping, too, and she sat in the cart atop a throne of bagged sweets and pointed out clearance decorations she wanted for next year. They’re boxed up somewhere. He should find them for her and the other girls. For next year, or seven years later, it’s not that much of a difference, is it?

“And,” he adds, “I’ll see you in November.” Start anew. “Tradition, right?”

[crystalninjaphoenix]

Love Lasts/Last Love

Septics Inverted

A JSE Fanfic

Who like finals messing with your time and energy?! Nobody? That’s what I thought! So because of said time- and energy-draining finals, this part is considerably shorter than the Inverted stories usually are. Also I’m working on storing up writing for the May event. Also I wanted to focus on another AU that has a big story coming out later this week. But enough about that! It’s time to get some updates on Stacy’s situation and leave everyone on a cliffhanger-type thing! *fingerguns away*

Read the intro story: Part One | Part Two

Various other AU-related stuff found here

Taglist: @evyptids @awkward-bullshit @watermelonsinmyattic @asunachinadoll @a-humble-narcissus @metautske @odysseus-is-best-boi @acuriousquail @beerecordings @elizabethnordwell

He’d given her a phone number after their last meeting, telling her to call or text him if she ever got in trouble. Stacy wondered exactly how the number worked, if it led to an actual phone or if it connected to somewhere in digital space that only Anti could access. Either way, she hadn’t expected to use it so soon. It was May 20th, three days after he last showed up. She was sitting in the front room, having just dropped off the kids at school. In one hand, she clutched the letter. In the other, she typed out a one-handed text on her phone, and sent it.

And just a few minutes later, the lights overhead flickered, and Anti appeared, leaning against the television. Where he made contact with the screen, it flickered with colors. “So what’s the problem?” he asked.

Stacy didn’t say anything, just held out the letter. Anti stared at it. Then all of a sudden she wasn’t holding it anymore, he was, and he was reading it intently. His eye got narrower the longer he read. “When did this happen?”

“That same night after you told me they could be tracking me,” she said quietly. “I—I think they were.”

Anti looked up. “Do you want to keep this?” he asked, holding up the letter.

Stacy bit her lip. “I...don’t know.” She really didn’t. Obviously, it would be better to get rid of it, to move on. But it was hard. Mostly because it had actually been a really sweet letter. For a moment, she could almost forget everything that happened between the two of them, and pretend they were back in university, having the time of their lives swept up in the early years of young love. Before the stress of working two jobs to provide for the kids, before the financial problems, before the alcohol and the fights and everything else. She knew it was impossible to go back, but she liked the reminder of happier days.

“How about...I keep it for you, and you can text me if you ever want to read it again?” Anti proposed. When Stacy nodded, the letter disappeared, falling apart into fading pixels.

She took a deep breath. “I...I’m sorry for calling you over something so little. But...I just needed to talk to someone about that. Figure out what to do.” She laughed. “And also, I-I guess it would be good for you to-to get an update on the stalking situation.”

He shook his head. “Come on. It’s fine. It’s just how humans work, talking about a situation makes it less big and scary. Though I do wonder if you don’t have other people to talk to.”

“I have some friends,” she said defensively. “A lot of them I know from work now, or they’re parents to the kids’ friends. But...I don’t th-think they could help, um, with this.” She folded her arms, shrinking into the couch cushions. “Not only would it be weird to tell them I think my ex is magically stalking me, but they don’t...they don’t even know everything that happened. Just that I’m divorced and it’s a sore subject. I think Shelly assumed there was an affair somewhere. Dunno if that’s better or worse.”

Anti shrugged. “If you’re asking me for romance advice, you’re absolutely talking to the wrong person. I don’t much care for it.”

“Do you care for any sort of connection?” Stacy asked impulsively. Then she regretted it when she saw how much his expression darkened. He looked over his shoulder at the television screen. Colors flashed wildly on it. “S-sorry,” she mumbled.

“Accepted,” he said, voice blank. “You can keep talking if you want.”

Stacy looked down, face getting red. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything for a while, and the room was silent except for a low electric whine. “It...it was a nice letter,” she finally said, voice so quiet she wasn’t sure he could hear her. “That’s why I didn’t know if I wanted to get rid of it. I th-thi-think the only thing that was...you know...was that there was a moment he said he couldn’t live without me. That might be...you know, a reference. Or it could just be trying to be romantic. Worked for both, the way it was written.” She sighed. “I don’t know when it happened for him. I know when it happened for me, but I don’t know when...when he stopped loving me. If he ever did in the first place.”

He was quiet, for long enough that she started wondering if she’d somehow upset him. Until he spoke again. “I think he still loves you,” he said. “Sure, it’s a dysfunctional kind of love, and his way of showing it is pretty fucked, but in his mind, he still loves you. I don’t know if that makes any of this better or worse, but I think it’s true.”

“...maybe,” she sighed. “Maybe. I don’t know.” She blinked rapidly. “Thanks, by the way. For just...listening. I know it must be interrupting something important, so I...I really appreciate it.”

“I can always catch up on security footage,” Anti shrugged. “And I can check the city’s cameras at the same time I listen to you.”

“You can?”

“Of course. I can be in multiple places at once.” He said this casually, as if he wasn’t currently breaking the laws of physics. “And so far, nothing’s happened. I don’t have anywhere to be until I need to try another dream contact tonight.”

Stacy hesitated before asking, “Dream...contact?”

The TV screen flickered with colors again. The overhead light switched off and on again. “Yes,” Anti said shortly. “It’s just...an attempt to jog some memories.”

She dropped the subject. Clearly, whatever this was, it was a bit too close to home for Anti. “Alright.” She turned around, looking out the window. “What...what are we gonna do about this? They’ve found me, and...I don’t want to...” She couldn’t find the words.

Anti was quiet, thinking. “I already gave you the phone number. That was what I planned to do about this. I could go out and confront him, but it could go badly for you if word got back to the others that I’m helping you out. If you want, I could put some cameras around your house. Or even inside.”

“Maybe outside,” she said. She briefly wondered where, exactly, he got the cameras, but if he could hack bank accounts just by thinking, she figured he didn’t have any problem with breaking in to more...material places. “Just around. So you can keep a closer eye on things. Doesn’t the neighborhood have cameras by itself?”

“A few, but this is one of the safer areas so there’s some blind spots that someone could easily use to sneak around undetected.”

Well, that was worrying. “Yeah, I think just around the house cameras would be helpful,” she said, standing up. “While you do that I-I’m going to go to the shop, get some food. Is that okay?”

“Hey, it’s your house. Your groceries. I don’t care.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll...I’ll see you later, then.”

The grocery run to the shop should’ve been easy. But as soon as she left the house, Stacy once again felt like she was being watched. She assumed that this feeling was the result of being tracked, and since she couldn’t do much about that, she forced herself to ignore it. It faded as soon as she got to the grocery store. But she didn’t quite relax.

And it turned out she was right not to.

She was in the cereal aisle, picking up her son’s favorite sugary excuse for breakfast food. She glanced to the side for a mere moment, and saw a head duck away at the end of the aisle. It looked like someone had been peering down the stacks towards her. And she knew who it was. She’d recognize that hat anywhere.

For a moment, she stared, her feet frozen to the ground. She forced herself to take deep, even breaths. She knew it was happening. But that didn’t stop the squirmy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her first instinct was to turn and run, but...maybe it was getting rid of the letter, maybe it was her brief conversation with Anti, it didn’t matter which. All that matters was that she realized she had a chance, right here, right now, to put a stop to this. She took a deep breath, then pushed her cart down the aisle toward the spot where she’d seen him. He wasn’t at the end, but when she turned into the next aisle, she spotted him. “Hello, Chase.”

He looked as shocked to see her as she’d been to see him. Maybe he hadn’t been expecting her to confront him. She hadn’t even been expecting that. “H-hi, Stacy,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” she asked tiredly.

“Oh, uh, y’know, just getting groceries. It’s a weekly chore in—in the house.”

“You don’t have a cart,” she pointed out.

“I left it back at the beginning of the aisle. It gets heavy.”

“Chase. No more excuses.”

His mouth opened, perhaps to deliver a pre-prepared denial, but then it snapped close again. “I...wanted to see you.”

“You’ve been wanting to see me for a while, then, haven’t you?” Stacy said, staring. “Chase, I’m not blind. I know you’ve been following me.”

“I...yeah.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “I know it’s creepy, but I just —I needed to make sure you were...okay. I needed to see you.”

“Have you been following the kids too?” she asked.

Chase shook his head. “No, I didn’t—they’re always around someone who would freak out. And, well, a grown man hanging around the elementary school would seem a little suspicious.” He paused. “Are they...doing okay? Physically and, like, mentally? Do they...miss me?”

They did. They’d been quieter ever since the separation. “They’re fine,” Stacy said simply. “Healthy, in both ways. And emotionally too, as far as I’m aware.”

“That’s good.” He took a deep breath. “Stacy—”

“No.” She was surprised at how firm her voice was. “Chase, I don’t want to listen to you. Last time I did, you managed to convince me to stay, and another year passed with no change at all. And if you’re—if you’re fucking stalking me instead of showing up at my house like a normal person would, I think that’s a sign that everything’s still the same.” Her voice softened a little. “It’s better this way, Chase. I can’t—can’t help you the way you think I can. I can’t make everything alright just by being there and telling you it’s going to be okay. And the kids are in a better environment now, one where we don’t have to worry about them overhearing raised voices or finding empty bottles. So just...just leave, okay? Find a better way.”

Chase’s eyes widened. His hands, now out of his pockets, were shaking. “No, no you can’t—Stacy, you can’t just—everything was better when we were together. We were all happy. A family.”

“At first, yeah. But things change. You changed. And I stopped being happy the way you were.” Stacy sighed. “Let’s just leave it here, please?”

He was speechless, wide-eyed. “You can’t...just leave again. At least listen to me.”

“I can’t, Chase,” she said softly. “Every time I listen to you, you convince me to stick with these...these bad habits.” She took a few steps back. “I’m...going to check out now. Don’t follow me.”

“Stacy?” He reached out, but then froze, hand dropping back to his side. “I...I love you.”

Stacy stared at him, her eyes pools of sadness. “I loved the person you were.” And with that, she turned and left. Something...something had changed. She breathed more easily now. There was still a tight knot inside her, one she’d have to work to unravel, but...it had loosened, just enough. She didn’t look behind her as she walked away.

Chase remained rooted to the ground. She...she hadn’t even heard him out. He hadn’t even been ready to talk to her yet, despite all this time trying to find the words to say. He could feel the hot tears coming, so he squeezed his eyes shut until they went away. Why...why did everyone leave? Well, it might have something to do with him. Him and the hot pile of garbage that was his personality. But she...she stayed before. What changed? Why couldn’t everything go back to the way it was before? He needed this. He needed it to be like that.

An inkling of an idea dripped down into his mind. For a moment, he recoiled. But then, thinking about it further...he’d already done it, hadn’t he?

Chase pulled out his phone, opening up his messages. He typed out a simple text: Hey do you remember that idea you had a while ago?

The reply was almost instantaneous. Of course I do! Did you something happen to change your mind?

I guess you could say that. Not exactly tho. Im still sure i can do it, i just need her to sit down and listen to me. But shes not gonna do it shes gonna keep walking away. She just needs to stop doing that.

I see your problem. I’m sure I can get her to come down for a visit. You can have your chance to convince her, and if that fails, well. My original offer still stands.

No. This is different. I can do it on my own.

If you insist, Chase. I’ll swing by tonight, if that works for you.

Yeah, thats fine.

Chase took a deep breath. He was really going to go through with this, wasn’t he? God, this was like something you heard on the news, not something you ever thought about doing. 

But...he’d already done worse, hadn’t he? What was one more sin, as long as it was in the name of love? And if that didn’t excuse it...well, he’d long ago accepted that he was the villain.

[eleanor-writes-stuff]

chemistry (my heart’s a city you’re out to destroy) - [i/iii]

Kylo Ren - superhuman, mercenary, and the world’s most dangerous man – has recently resurfaced after a mysterious three-month disappearance.

Rey Niima, listicle writer by day and investigative reporter by night, is way too busy to worry about that. Seriously, she’s got a million things on her plate - she doesn’t have the time to think about anything else.

Especially now that news editor Benjamin Snoke has returned to the office and seems hell-bent on making her life… interesting.

It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s the Superman/Lois Lane AU I never thought I’d write! (Okay, not really. But... vaguely. Loosely inspired, I’d say.)

Happy belated birthday, @nancylovesreylo! Earlier this month you came up with one of the best prompts I've ever seen, and while I'm still holding out hope that someone will come along and do it justice someday, here's my little attempt at it in the meantime. I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 2 Also available on AO3. And hey, maybe check out my Twitter and Ko-fi?

Rey wakes up on the first Monday of February to find her phone blowing up with notifications.

The first tweet her eyes land on is a set of pictures with the very uninformative caption HE LIVES!!!, and she’s still blinking sleep out of her eyes when the first grainy photo finally loads and immediately captures her undivided attention as her heart gets lodged somewhere in her throat.

Kylo.

Hidden amongst the trees dotting the lake, loitering outside a darkened theater, perched precariously atop City Hall – all of the pictures are of Kylo Ren, MIA for three months now and even feared dead by some. Rey had thought herself unaffected by the rumors, secure in the knowledge that she would know somehow if something had happened to him, but tears spring to her eyes all the same as she stares at pixelated, zoomed-in images of him until her vision goes blur.

It’s a message, she knows, but it’s also one she can’t do anything about right now. So she shakes herself out of it and goes through the motions of her usual workday morning, setting her phone aside as she forces breakfast down her throat and pulls on a repeat outfit from last week. But as soon as she reaches the office, Rey can’t help the way her fingers automatically reach for her phone every five minutes to reassure herself that it’s real, he’s back, she isn’t just dreaming again–

She’s busy staring at him for the umpteenth time that morning when she walks right into a wall on her way to get coffee.

No, not a wall, Rey realizes as she looks up from her phone to find a solid expanse of chest and torso and black shirt. A little further up, and she finds a man looking at her as if he’s on a particularly bad trip and she’s a dancing, flying elephant.

Bewilderment is the best way Rey can think of to describe it, but all she’s done is accidentally run into him while on her phone; surely that doesn’t warrant the way he’s looking at her with wide eyes (she can’t help but notice how dark they are) and tense shoulders (broad, so very, very broad) and parted lips (thicker than she’s ever seen on a man, but still alluring somehow) that look like they’re trying to say something, anything–

Rey beats him to it. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve been paying better attention–”

The man blinks at her, and then promptly walks away.

She’s abruptly reminded of a piece of drunken wisdom Rose had taken it upon herself to share with the rest of the bar at last Friday’s happy hour, fresh off her latest failed Tinder date. The hot ones are always assholes, a tipsy Rose had sagely proclaimed to the bar, only to be met with supportive cheers and enthusiastic applause.

Maybe Rose and the rest of the bar knew what they were talking about after all.

“Fine,” Rey fumes to herself as she turns to watch the asshole’s retreating back cut a path across the office, eventually winding around the staircase leading to the newsroom upstairs. “Fine. Fuck you too, mystery man,” she mutters under her breath, and figures that is that. The news team barely ever mingles with the rest of them anyway, so with any luck Rey won’t ever have to see him and his perfect hair again.

Except after lunch that day Amilyn calls for a staff meeting on the second floor, and as Rey squeezes into the crowded conference room she catches sight of said perfect hair on the opposite end of the room, seated on Amilyn’s right. Thankfully he’s looking straight ahead, leaving her with only a view of that broad, broad back which Rey most definitely does not find distracting as she attempts to focus on their editor-in-chief’s… presentation? Speech? It’s the start of the week, so maybe Amilyn is just giving them all a little pep talk to get things off on the right foot.

In any case, Rey desperately hopes it’s nothing too important. And it probably isn’t, given that Amilyn starts wrapping things up fifteen short minutes later.

“And finally, I’d like to welcome Ben back to the office. It’s been a rough three months without you, and I’m sure the news team is glad to have its editor back. I know I am!” Amilyn beams as a polite round of applause fills the room, and Rey cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of the elusive Ben Snoke, who’d gone on leave to handle some sort of family emergency just days before she joined Raddus.

From the corner of her eye, she catches movement where there should absolutely not be movement. But maybe Mystery Man is just as curious as her, maybe it doesn’t mean anything that he’s slowly turning around in his seat and unfolding his gigantic treelike frame out of the tiny conference room chair–

Mystery Man stands and acknowledges the room with a nod and a tight smile. “Thanks, everyone. It’s good to be back,” he says even as those dark eyes land on her, and the smile falls off his plush lips. “I look forward to working with all of you again.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

The rest of the day goes decidedly downhill from there because there’s no coming back from the realization that your potential future boss hates you for some reason, but at least no one stops Rey when she’s the first to leave the second the clock strikes six.

It doesn’t actually make a difference – she knows he won’t be there until eleven at the earliest – but at least it leaves her with plenty of time to navigate through hellish rush hour traffic and still have dinner and change before she leaves for the Amidala Museum.

Their museum.

Rey can’t remember exactly when it became their spot, only that one day she spotted Kylo hanging around the museum on her way home and they ended up talking about their mutual love of the place for more than an hour. It had been one of the very first real conversations they’d shared, and just thinking about it still brings a smile to her face nearly two years later.

She’s chasing after a wisp of a memory about his favorite exhibit when a familiar, faint rasp announces his presence. It’s that damn voice modulator as always, giving him away before he can get the chance to sneak up on her.

A thrill races down Rey’s spine as she prepares to turn around.

Three months. It’s been three months since she last saw Kylo, last made him laugh, last stood a little too close–

She can feel him standing right behind her now, and a tiny shudder works its way through her body as Rey processes their proximity. Forget news editor Ben Snoke and his plush, kissable lips and his unfairly attractive voice – nothing will ever come close to the way Kylo sets her blood on fire.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Rey turns and nearly staggers backwards as she comes face-to-face with all six-foot-three of her masked man, and she folds her arms across her chest to keep her hands to herself as she tips her head back to look at him. “It’s been three months, Kylo. Of course I showed up.”

It’s impossible to tell with that mask of his, but Rey thinks she detects a hint of a smile when he speaks. “I’m glad you did, sweetheart. I…” he hesitates, and a gloved hand reaches out to pull her out of the tiny patch of moonlight and into the shadows of the grand, ornate pillars that hold up the museum. “I wasn’t sure if you would, after all this time, but I had to see you. Had to know how you’re doing.”

Not for the first time, Rey wishes she could at least hear his real voice. The growl of the modulator is so at odds with the sincerity of his words, a harsh reminder of reality when all she wants is to escape into a softer, kinder dream world.

But that’s never been in the cards for them, no matter how many pretty words Kylo whispers into his modulator, so Rey huffs out a bitter laugh and shakes her head at him instead as she pulls her hand out of his grasp. “Me? You’re the one who disappeared for three months! Kylo, I thought– I didn’t know what to think, but people were saying that… that…”

That he’d finally gotten what he deserved. That the world would be a better place without him. That they should all be glad to be rid of him and his knights.

Rey has tuned out op-eds and news shows for the last three months, choosing instead to dwell in the corners of the internet where everyone seemed equally concerned even though they’d never met Kylo at all, even though there was no way they felt the way she did, does–

“You could’ve let me known you’re alive,” she murmurs, dropping her eyes to the ground. “You could’ve done at least that.”

The modulator crackles, distorting his sharp intake of breath.

“I’m sorry. Things have been… difficult,” Kylo says with a sigh, yet another unpleasant burst of sound rushing past his mask. “Difficult and different, and I wasn’t really thinking, I couldn’t think at all–”

His hand rises to his head, and then falls back down. Rey’s noticed he does that sometimes, especially when he’s agitated or stressed or embarrassed, and all it does is make her want to take that stupid mask off and run her hands through his hair the way he’s itching to do.

It’d be flat from the helmet, she imagines, and so soft in her hands–

But that’s something for a kinder world. In this world Rey sets the urge aside to focus on his words instead, like a crow catching sight of something shiny for it to chase after and fixate on.

“What happened? Where have you been? Where are the rest of the Knights? Why haven’t you–”

Kylo laughs and shakes his head at her, the way he always does whenever she gets all ‘reporter-y’ – his word, not hers – on him. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

Rey shrugs, unrepentant as ever. He can’t expect her to stop doing her job just because of their unlikely friendship, just as she’s never expected him to stop doing his – even when it involves more bloodshed than she’s comfortable with.

“I’ve lost more sleep in the past three months than I have in the past three years, Kylo,” she tells him sharply, unashamedly. “I think I deserve an explanation–”

“Don’t you have work in the morning?” he interrupts, and even in its distorted form Rey can tell his voice is just a little too innocent. “It’s getting late, Rey. You should go home and get some sleep.”

She crosses her arms and scowls at him. “Are you serious?”

“Always,” Kylo intones with a nod of his helmet. “Now go home, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you get there safely.”

It’s not fair that he always makes her that promise no matter how their conversation ends, and it’s definitely not fair that she immediately softens at his familiar parting words, first spoken so long ago–

I should get going, she’d told him then, just a young reporter reluctant to step away from a living, breathing mystery that might prove to be her big break if only she could crack him. It’s a long walk home, and I’m alone.

And instantly, without a moment’s hesitation, the words had spilled past his lips: you’re not alone. I’ll make sure you get home safely, I promise.

Rey might not know much about Kylo Ren – might not know anything about him, actually – but on this, at least, she knows she can always trust him.

“Fine,” she gives in with a huff, pointing a warning finger at him. “But this conversation isn’t over yet.”

“It never is,” Kylo agrees, and the cheery note in his voice pulls a reluctant smile out of her. “Good night, Rey.”

“Good night, Kylo,” she whispers in return, and in the blink of an eye he’s disappeared – up into the sky or on the roof or maybe even to a different dimension; you never know with Kylo Ren.

Rey shakes her head at the thought and sets out into the night, knowing she has nothing to fear.

A week after her unfortunate first meeting with Ben Snoke, Amilyn calls Rey in for a meeting.

Thankfully it’s after hours, which allows her to wait until the news team has left for the day before she climbs the spiral staircase up to the second floor of the converted warehouse. Amilyn’s office is all the way at the end, and Rey can’t help but sneak a glimpse at Ben’s office as she walks past.

His door is closed, but the office is entirely dark. Empty, just like she’d hoped it would be.

Bolstered by that reassurance, Rey picks up the pace and quickly finds herself seated opposite her editor-in-chief, documents and pictures fanned out across the desk between them. She’s been discreetly looking into a chain of strip clubs for months now, trying to prove that it’s all just a front for the Guavian Death Gang, but her investigation has slowed down in recent months.

In her defense, it’s unexpectedly hard to focus on strip clubs when you’re constantly worrying about a certain mercenary and his possible death. Amilyn had been very understanding about the whole thing, even if Rey had never actually said anything about it to her, and had encouraged her to focus on fleshing out her cover as a mere listicle writer first.

But now that Kylo is alive and well and she’s written at least a dozen posts about the top ten hidden gems in Coruscant City, Rey is itching to get back to work.

“So you’re going back on stakeout duty?” Amilyn asks, worry lines forming between her brows as she picks up a picture of the club’s back door.

Rey nods. “It’s been a while, so I figured I should see if anything’s changed and familiarize myself with things before I try to go in. I’m thinking of starting next Monday–”

The door opens without warning, and both women immediately spring into action, sweeping all of the papers strewn across Amilyn’s desk into a haphazard pile.

“Amilyn, we need to talk–” Ben declares just as their boss drops a write-up about a recent ‘influencers’ summit’ – whatever the hell that is – on top of the pile, effectively hiding Rey’s work from view.

Ben comes to a screeching halt, and there it is again: that wide-eyed look of sheer horror over having to share a space with her. “Oh. I didn’t realize you’re still here.”

Rey quickly gets to her feet and sweeps the pile into her arms, summit write-up and all. “I was just about to leave,” she announces coolly without sparing him a look. “Amilyn, I’ll have that article about diving spots done by tomorrow night, if that’s okay?”

She doesn’t know anything about diving, but during times like these Rey tends to just go with the first thing to come to her panicked mind. So diving it is.

Amilyn nods as she plasters on her signature warm smile. “That’s more than okay, Rey. It’s just what we’re looking for, and I’m sure you’ll be able to execute it flawlessly–”

Fine, so maybe Amilyn’s laying it on a little too thick, but that absolutely does not justify the little snort that escapes Ben.

Rey turns to him with a scowl. “What?” she demands, clutching her papers close to her chest as she pins Ben with a glare, desperately fighting against her body to not react to the amused little twitch of his lips.

“Nothing,” he claims a little too quickly, barely meeting her eye for two seconds before he moves forward and settles into her abandoned seat. “Now if you’re done here, I really do need to speak to our editor. In private.”

“Fine,” Rey mutters before she bids Amilyn a good night and pointedly does not do the same for Ben. Screw him; he deserves the worst of nights for having the audacity to be so attractive yet so awful. Rey very nearly slams the door behind her, but manages to rein in the urge at the very last second. She does, however, stomp her way back to her desk, and maybe she bangs around her table for a bit before she finally slams her drawer shut, documents safely locked away, and allows some of the tension to drain away.

What even was that snort? What an asshole; he probably thinks he’s better than everyone here just because he writes about ‘real’ news–

With a frustrated growl, Rey kicks the thought out of her mind and focuses on work instead.

It’s only twenty minutes past six, so traffic is definitely still hell. Rey figures she might as well stick around and throw together that diving article; it’s half of what Amilyn is paying her for, after all.

The next time Rey looks up from her computer screen, an hour has passed and someone is clearing their throat behind her. She turns back for a curious look and immediately suppresses a groan.

Because of fucking course it’s Ben Snoke, looking down at her with furrowed brows.

“Why are you wasting your time on this shit?”

If Rey were standing, she would have taken several steps backward out of sheer shock. “Excuse me?”  she demands, voice colored by indignation and anger.

Ben, miraculously, does not back down. In fact, it’s almost as if he hasn’t noticed her reaction at all, because he pushes on and steers the conversation into an entirely unexpected direction. “You’re an amazing investigative reporter – or so I’ve heard,” he quickly adds before Rey can even begin to process the idea that Ben Snoke might know her work. “Any serious news team in the city would be lucky to have you. So why are you here posting about the same ten Instagram trends day in and day out?”

He seems… genuinely puzzled, Rey notes with no small amount of surprise. And maybe in any other case that would’ve softened her, and maybe under any other circumstances this would’ve been the perfect opportunity to ask if his team could use another reporter, but right here, right now… Ben was already dangerously close to the truth when he pushed his way into Amilyn’s office unannounced. She can’t let him get any closer.

“It’s a brave new world, Ben,” she huffs at him, going for a sneer and failing miserably as soon as she catches sight of a flash of hurt in his eyes. “Try to keep up. Escapism gets hits. Sensationalism gets hits. The same ten Instagram trends over and over again gets hits. But good old boring investigative work? There’s a reason newsrooms are growing smaller and smaller all around the country.”

And before Ben can defend his craft, their craft–

“Besides, that’s none of your business,” Rey states with a note of finality as she turns her back on him, returning her attention to her screen.

She waits for the hairs on the back of her neck to go down, for the odd prickle of awareness she feels around him to fade away.

But Ben lingers, and finally he lets out a heavy sigh. “You’re right,” he mumbles, and out of the corner of her eye Rey spots him placing a brown bag on her desk. “Here. Since you’re working late.”

She turns her head just the slightest bit, and then a little more to stare at him when she catches sight of the logo printed on the bag.

Pastries. He’s brought her pastries from the bakery around the corner.

“Um… thanks?” Rey reaches out and notes that the bag is still warm. “When did you–”

Ben sticks his hands into his pockets and fixes his eyes straight ahead, on her crowded notice board. “Breakroom,” he lies.

Rey can’t exactly call him out on it – what is she supposed to do, accuse him of taking the trouble of getting fresh food for her? – but she’s too puzzled to let it slide. “Wow,” she pretends to play along, “you guys just happen to keep fresh pastries on hand?”

To his credit, Ben remains nonchalant. “This floor might have healthy, balanced meal-prep lunches,” he shrugs, “but we have all the good stuff.” A pause, and then, a little quieter: “You should come up and check it out sometime.”

She’s been to the upstairs breakroom at least four times, and can confirm that they do not have ‘all the good stuff’. In fact, on most days the news people can be found hanging around the downstairs breakroom, hoping to swipe something from the lifestyle team’s latest video shoot or cooking experiment.

“Maybe I will,” Rey says, keeping her tone even.

Ben withdraws his hands from his pockets as he nods. “Okay. Great. Yeah.”

A painfully awkward silence settles over them then, but just as Rey’s about to reach for the bag and ask if he’d like to share something – it’s only polite to offer, since he’s the one who went and got them – Ben steps back and promptly turns on his heel. “I’ll just… I’ll just get out of your hair now.”

Rey reaches for him without thought. “Ben, wait!” she requests as her fingers wrap around his wrist.

When he turns he’s got that same look from that first morning again, this time focused firmly upon her hand on his. Rey’s cheeks heat up as she quickly lets go of him, and if her heart falls a little at his reaction it’s nobody’s business but her own.

“What…” Ben falters, clears his throat, and finally tears his eyes away from his hand to look at her for all of five seconds. “What is it?”

“I just…” Rey takes a deep breath, and offers him a smile. “Thanks,” she says, leaving it at that.

Slowly, hesitantly, Ben smiles in return. It’s a small thing, a barely-there curve of his lips, but his eyes are warm and bright as they hold hers, the first time she’s ever seen them that way, and oh fuck, Rey’s going to think about this a lot now, isn’t she?

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, still smiling. “Don’t… don’t stay too late, Rey. Good night.”

This time, she lets him leave.

“Good night, Ben,” Rey whispers to his retreating back, wondering what the hell just happened.

But hey, at least now she’s roughly 80% sure Ben Snoke doesn’t actually hate her for no damn reason.

So this was originally meant to be done by last week, but then life got in the way as it always does. And it was originally meant to be a one-shot, but then it got out of hand as my stories always do. This one especially strayed further and further away from the plan with every word I wrote, but I hope it's still somewhat decent.

Hoping to update again this weekend and then sometime mid-next week for a third and final time, but we'll see how that goes. You know what they say about life and the best-laid plans...

As always, thank you for reading and I hope you liked it. Please don't hesitate to like/reblog/comment; I'd love to know what you guys think about this so far!

And once again: happy birthday, Nancy! <3

[millimallow]

pt. 4 - a new religion

part 4 of the world of owa anthology.

inside an arcade is a new hierarchy. a new priest, a new crown, a new war.

dozens of people crowd around a single arcade machine, eyes fixated on the screen as it flashes. blue, pink, purple, both the case and the game itself glow radiant in the darkness like a neon fire. intricately decorated with holographic tinsel and silver resin jewellery, a halo is formed. a modern shrine for the ancient people of u’baani. it has its worshippers, and it has its priests. my history lessons in the modern glass-and-steel central academy told me of the slow death our traditional gods had experienced in the cities. but wearing my intricate getup for the opportunity to offer myself to the legacy of champions? i knew better. there was nothing wrong with becoming a prophet in your own right.

before a match begins, we turn our hands so that the palms face up. our right hand men wash them gently with cloths dipped in sacred water for luck, all in order to remove sweat and potential tampering. who said there’s no honour amongst competitors? a whole crowd gathers beforehand and watches on. they’re anticipating the match, but they’re also checking to make sure everything has gone neatly and to order. if anything is awry, someone will no doubt catch hell for it.

today i’ve been careful. you have to, when the stakes are this high. busy city streets can distract you easily- one moment a shrill pubescent catfolk tries to sell you some fluorescent lemonade from a refrigerated cart, then you’re lost, and when you’re lost you’re late. i’m here at the allbalm arcade before anyone else gets there. it’s a matter of principle more than anything, but there’s also no shame in warming up at the machines so long as you don’t overdo it and burn out. though even if i arrive out of match time, it’s impossible to not draw attention.

he was already there.

my rival is a bright young thing named keyr’lin coo’per. i only met him a few months ago, as he recently returned from the coastline and a fairly exclusive boarding school. he’s a mangrove elf, like me, but his family is involved in some intricate computer-y business and it hasn’t been hard for them to get rid of him somewhere remote. it’s not apparent they’ve gotten much for their money, though, as, well… he’s proven himself a competitor for my dominion over the local joint. must have spent a lot of time in the local arcade and less at his fancy-boy brick school. now though- he’s on my territory. he’s wearing his silver shimmer jacket, blinding me as i get closer as it refracts the light from the screen. maybe it’s purposeful, maybe it’s not, but i suddenly want to leap at him like a wild fucking animal. especially when i can see that he’s smirking. smirking right in my face.

“i know that you turn up early, clever boy.”

“you’ve got some nerve, new boy.” i’m trying to match his mocking tone, but he’s somehow completely apathetic to my taunt.

“we don’t have to fight like this. we’re competitors, not enemies. let’s get down to business.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

word has gotten around quickly that we’re here. informal legend of our competition spreads instantly amongst the people who gather each day, it can be replaced just as soon. neither of us has prepared whatsoever, and i’m increasingly perturbed by keyr’lin’s apparent lack of a nerve. it’s okay, i tell myself. it’s all about what i show him, everything else only exists to distract me. so i put on my confident face, bear the magenta neon ceiling lights, and let the young woman standing next to me wash my palms down with a soft pink rag. old rituals demonstrated to us come back to me like an instinct. how a cleric could meditate in front of an idol on their knees for days on end just to prove their devotion. how it exceeded all others. how travellers would stoop behind them to wash their feet clean of insect bites in the tropical weather.

the name of the game is overdrive exe. it’s a racing game, rendered in a pixelated fashion, providing a surface-level simplicity of challenge and objective. be the fastest, control the best, optimize your time. one of my areas of expertise. me and keyr’lin take to the seats in front of the two machines, long worn down, now just black leather pedestals. i observe his straddle- it’s neat, confident and exudes control. then i match him as we select our boats and accessories of choice. a lot of strategy goes into this, but in the moment a crazy idea comes to me- i want to beat him at his own game. a countdown begins as my hand hovers over the control button, firm on the joystick, ready for an explosion of light. he’s whistling something under his breath as it happens. i whistle my own call to power; one of the old songs we sung in our religious instruction.

let the waves carry me to shore, provideth me with calm oceans. my land where the sugarcane grows tall, tall as the sun in a blue sky. seaweed in the water, becometh my gentle guide. no more shall the ocean be full full of the tears of my ancestors.

push, push. push as hard as i can go then further. keep myself in the space i have, let no other overtake my great desire. there is a sign in the light. you must try. it flickers, and i become heady with its instruction, so as that my eyes fill with the great flurorescent blaze. the rush overtakes me, all until i hear a familiar tune. the finishing song and the ring of a plastic bell.

did i win?

“draw!”

i turn to keyr’lin. his eyes are glassy and he’s not blinking. there’s an expression of shock on his face, but it’s frozen there, and his body won’t twitch when i move my hand over to him gently. on the screen is his score- the very same as mine.

down to the finest second. and he’s not responding to the finishing call, either, hand still firm with its grip on the controls.

rendereth my enemies inert and shipwrecked,

so longer i can offer myself to you.

what in the world had just happened?

[honhonluigi]

The second Layers of Fear sucks absolute ass compared to the first one. What the fuck

The first one was this gorgeous masterpiece of story and character, with a unique natural-feeling way of getting information, with a beautiful soundtrack. And a slow progression from normal reality to absolute insanity that made you feel like you were going through it with the character. 

The second has fucking one boring-ass distorted music box song, that lasts for two measures, played on loop the ENTIRE TIME and that’s it. The characters are bland and sucky and dry. I don’t give a fuck about random token “horror game children.” The information is force-fed down your throat from the beginning, as well as ridiculous stupid over the top scares. And the storyline is impossible and just plain stupid. Some evil director guy is brainwashing you? Lame. Tell me something that could actually happen to me. I really don’t care about the random children we start seeing out of nowhere who spend ALL this time narrating at us- which jars me from the story. Then they narrate that whole time and say absolutely FUCKING nothing but a bunch of fake-meta bullshit. It sucks. Not to mention the monster chasing you the whole time is silly and dumb. I’m not five years old. 

They’ve forgotten everything they’ve done right with the first one. They got rid of everything that made it unique and created this boring, stupid “typical horror game” feeling. They forget that real life is scarier than any monsters I can see in pixels on a computer screen.